The Evans family was baronial, true—but with such abilities, Julies could have aimed higher. He might have fought for the family headship, or secured himself as a knight under her own Voss dukedom. He could have courted prestige, power, everything their society valued.
But he didn’t.
He abandoned it all, slipped away to the north, and took service in another’s household.
What kind of man makes such a choice unless he’s hiding something?
Her suspicion grew sharper the more she recalled. Especially the night of the auction.
The night Lady Draken herself had crossed paths with the Faceless Imposter.
That very week, Julies had conveniently taken leave. A "holiday," he called it. Gone just before the incident—and back again just after.
Too precise. Too clean.
Perfect coincidence was no coincidence at all.
With such circumstances stacked, maintaining neutrality was no longer wisdom—it was willful blindness.
"Do criminals ever reveal their true faces?" she murmured coldly. "No. That’s why we assume first, and prove later."
And so, in her mind, Julies Evans became the prime suspect.
Not just the Faceless Imposter.
But also the demon that Lady Draken swore he was.
The Duke of the North himself had declared it before—that the thief wasn’t merely human.
And Emma Voss trusted her intuition.
The only question left was chilling, dangerous, and almost thrilling in its weight:
Was Julies Evans truly the demon Faceless Imposter?
Emma set the newspaper down with deliberate care, as though the ink itself carried poison. Her fan opened with a snap, fluttering just enough to cool the heat rising in her chest.
"Julies Evans," she whispered again, tasting the name. "Your mask is thin. Thinner than you think."
The notion alone should have been absurd. A baron’s son, a servant in the far north, entangled with the Frost household—how could such a man be the most wanted thief in the empire? Yet the very absurdity of it only deepened her conviction.
The Faceless Imposter thrived on hiding in plain sight. And what better disguise than mediocrity?
Her eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. "You thought burying yourself in the snow would keep me from sniffing you out? How naïve."
Still, intuition was not enough. Not in the ruthless halls of nobility. If she dared accuse Julies openly without proof, she’d be ridiculed—or worse, played like a fool.
Emma tapped the folded paper against her fan, considering.
No, she would need evidence. Something undeniable. And that meant watching him. Closely.
"He’s clever. If he is the Faceless Imposter, then he’ll cover his tracks twice over. But even the clever leave shadows behind."
Her lips curved into a faint smile, elegant yet edged.
And the birthday celebration? It was the perfect hunting ground. The Draken estate would be filled with nobles, guards, and eyes from every corner of the empire. The very air would be thick with suspicion. If Julies slipped—even once—it would be enough.
"Lady Draken may be possessive," Emma murmured, recalling Alice’s iron refusal to hand over the thief. "But possession means little when truth comes to light. If Julies truly is the Faceless Imposter, then not even her pride can shield him."
Emma leaned back, closing her fan with a soft click. She could already imagine it: Julies caught, unmasked, his carefully woven lies unraveling thread by thread.
But more than justice, it was the vindication she sought. For years, her family had been humiliated by a single thieve who made fools of nobles. The Phantom Thief. He is shadow that slipped through their fingers, mocking them with every escape.
To be the one who uncovered his identity—who restored the name of Voss—would be a triumph carved in history.
Emma’s expression hardened, her whisper sharp as glass.
"Your time is running out, Julies Evans. Whether you’re a thief, a demon, or both—I will see that mask shatter."
She rose from her seat with practiced elegance, smoothing the folds of her gown as though nothing had been said.
Outwardly calm, but her thoughts were already racing, arranging pieces on an invisible chessboard. Which servants could she plant near him? Which nobles should be fed the right rumors? When and where should the trap be sprung?
The Faceless Imposter had stolen enough from noble families.
Now, she intended to steal from him—his secrets, his identity... and if fortune allowed, his life.
But one obstacle remained, standing like a wall between her and her victory.
"...There’s no evidence."
Yes. That was the problem.
The truth felt so close she could almost taste it, yet all her suspicions were nothing more than whispers. Rumors. Circumstantial shadows. To move against him openly, she needed more.
She wanted to march in, use the Voss family’s name, and drag him away in chains. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
He wasn’t some merchant’s son she could crush without consequence.
Alice still shielded him, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to turn him away after the trust they once shared.
The Duke of Draken himself seemed to think well of him, offering protection under that towering name.
And beyond that, he was bound by engagement to the Frost family, who held the North’s purse strings in their hands.
Without clear, undeniable proof, she would be branded reckless. The backlash would be worse than the shame her house had already endured.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her fan.
"...Evidence."
Her eyes widened, cold resolve glinting within them.
"Evidence is always found where a man rests his head."
The answer was obvious. His residence.
If Julies Evans truly was the Faceless Imposter, then somewhere in that mansion—behind locked doors, hidden compartments, or carelessly discarded scraps—lay the thread that would unravel his mask.
Emma’s lips curled into the faintest smile.
There was no reason to hesitate.
Emma’s fan clicked shut with a snap, her decision sealed.
If there was no evidence, then she would create the opportunity to find it.
If she wanted Julies Evans stripped bare, she had to start where all men revealed themselves—in their own rooms, where masks were set aside and secrets hidden away.
"His residence," she whispered again, her lips curling into the faintest smile.